


To Those Who Wait

by Jikatabi



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Consensual, Gentle Sex, Impatience, M/M, Pre-Canon, Secret Relationship, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 01:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14321451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jikatabi/pseuds/Jikatabi
Summary: Nobody else knows the wonderful things Yakov does when Victor follows him to his hotel room after a competition.





	To Those Who Wait

Another competition, another hard-won medal, although this one is shiny silver to match his hair. Victor smiles anyway; smiles at the gold and bronze medalists, smiles at the cameras, smiles at everyone who sticks around for the medal ceremony. Smiles, pretty and gracious and good enough to beat everyone else today, except for one other skater.

Not good enough, then. But Yakov says that his programs have been improving this season, that they're getting more expressive, that he can take gold at Nationals with them. Victor is going to prove him right.

So Victor smiles and regurgitates those sentiments for the press. "Besides my technical skills, I've been trying to work on my interpretation of the music," he says. "I hope to have something special to show everyone at Nationals," he says. "Yakov tells me that my programs this season have come a long way," he says.

Sometimes, just for fun, he wonders what the reporters would write if they knew some of the other things that Yakov tells him. The way he says _beautiful_ when Victor strips for him, or _tighter_ when Victor touches his cock. The wordless moans he makes against Victor's skin, deep and pleasing.

Probably not the best thing to be thinking about at a press conference. He has to fight not to squirm. But he's bored.

The obvious angle would be of Victor as the poor, abused, manipulated, innocent young thing taken advantage of by his predatory older coach. How scandalous! And yeah, okay, maybe a sixty-year-old coach fucking his teenage student isn't a _great_ look (he can almost see the skating fan forum posts full of lurid speculation), but that's just a reason to keep it quiet.

Victor's the one who initiated this thing they have, after all. Yakov's hardly hurting him. Victor likes it when he touches him, even when it's just an arm around his shoulders after he's done with the media, guiding him down the hall and into a taxi. Yakov lets him press into his side and shoulder like he's tired, lets him press a hand under his knee where the driver won't see it.

There's another angle the articles could take, Victor thinks when they get into Yakov's hotel room and he reaches over to loop his arms around Yakov's neck as soon as the door shuts. Maybe he's not the innocent but the seducer, trying to lever every advantage he can get out of his coach. Which is almost as laughable as the reverse; Victor might be Yakov's favorite, but he's pretty sure Yakov likes teaching Georgi a lot more, if the way that Georgi gets yelled at a lot less is any indication. Yakov's fair at the rink. His students all get their scheduled time with him. Victor isn't sure what advantage he _could_ get out of this.

He drops the line of thought when Yakov kisses him, because nobody does know, and this is much more fun to focus on.

Victor steps back until he bumps the wall and pulls Yakov with him. Yakov's kisses tonight are patient, long and slow, and his tongue is hot when he finally gives into Victor's open mouth and slips it inside. Victor moans and tightens his grip. Yakov's mouth, his hands firm on his waist, are sending more heat down his spine.

His skin gets little sparks when Yakov breaks away to press kisses down his neck, from his jaw to his collar, unzipping the top of his jacket as he goes in order to reveal the skin. It makes the rest of him ache for touch, too, for those hands to burrow under his shirt, for Yakov's leg to make its way into the space Victor has made between his own.

Yakov lingers at his collar, sucking on the skin, but only so lightly it won't leave a mark. And then he _stops_ and starts to pull away.

Victor makes a displeased sound and reaches for him. Yakov catches his hand and pushes aside his glove and his sleeve to kiss the fold of his wrist. It's warm and gentle, making something in Victor's chest skip a little, and not just because of the way that his skin tingles. And then he lets go. "I need to finish a couple of things first," he says. "Why don't you order dinner?"

He doesn't want dinner first. He wants Yakov to go back to touching him, to push him down to the bed and push his legs apart and kiss him until he can't breathe. So he pushes his luck a little, reeling Yakov in for another kiss and doing his best to look inviting, but when Yakov pulls away once more, he does so with that stern look that says he means it.

"You're so mean to me," Victor whines.

"Figure out what you want to eat," says Yakov, and then he sits down at the desk and opens his laptop. Victor grumbles about his priorities and paces the room a couple of times before dramatically throwing himself into a chair with the room service menu. Yakov doesn't even look his way.

He's probably doing it to make Victor impatient and desperate for his touch. Well, it's working. Victor orders for both of them, then plays with his phone when the food arrives. He can barely pay attention to the screen, though; all he wants to do is glance towards Yakov and see if he's at least sending little looks towards him, but Yakov just chews through his meal and only sets eyes on him for more than a moment when Victor stares. "I won't be much longer," he says, and then he does lean over to press his lips to Victor's cheek, but it's far too brief.

Victor doesn't like being made to wait, whether it's for his turn to skate or for Yakov's attention. He flops on the bed and does his best to sulk as visibly as possible, in the faint hope that maybe his pouting at the ceiling will get Yakov to come over.

Instead, he falls asleep.

What wakes him is a kiss. He reaches out, first, and then flutters his eyes open. The lights are all turned down, and Yakov leans over him in nothing but a towel dropped in his lap.

Victor forgives him instantly when Yakov kisses him again, just forceful enough to make him squeak softly and roll into a better position. This time, when Victor tugs on his shoulders, Yakov comes to him. It always feels good to have Yakov's weight pressing down on him, firm and almost trapping. Like he wants to keep him there, right where he can touch him.

And Yakov touches. There's fingers in his hair when it starts to get tangled underneath him, lips pressing right underneath his jaw where it feels strangely pleasant, legs winding into place around his. Victor pulls on Yakov's damp hair, or what's left of it, all that desperation he felt before he fell asleep flooding back into his system.

"Not so hard," Yakov grumbles, tugging Victor's hand away. But then he turns it over and kisses the palm, far more softly than he was kissing his mouth a minute ago, and it sets off a little flutter in Victor's chest.

Not just because it's something small and intimate, the kind of thing Yakov only rarely does (though a little more often, lately, now that they've been sleeping together for a while). But Victor's been hiding his hands for the past few days; he keeps cutting his hands on his skate when he pulls his leg up into a Biellmann spin, and he doesn't want everyone to see the ugly bandages on his fingers. So it was gloves during backstage warmup, gloves on his costumes, gloves as soon as he changed. He only took them off when dinner arrived.

"So lovely, Vitya," Yakov breathes as he curls his fingers around the edge of Victor's hand and pins it – but gently – to the covers. Victor bites his lip and wonders if he means the spin that always gets him a cheer from the crowd, or the proof on his fingers of the hours and mistakes that go into that position, or maybe just himself as a whole.

It's getting too hot, both from the heat of Yakov's body on top of him and the flush Victor can feel lighting up his cheeks. He uses his free hand to jerk the zipper of his jacket down, only for it to catch at the bottom. Victor curses and tries to force it; Yakov brushes his hand away and gets it undone properly, although he doesn't give him room to take it off. Instead, he pushes it open and shoves his shirt up until he can lean down and set his mouth around one nipple.

Victor cries out, then immediately claps his free hand over his mouth. Secret, right. At home, they don't really have to worry, but who knows how thick the walls are in this hotel.

Still, it's such a struggle not to make too much noise as Yakov works his way down his chest. He knows everything that Victor likes by now – he's probably helped discover, like, half of them, even the simple things like how Victor prefers having a hand grip his waist and not his hip.

He pays so much attention. Both at practice and in bed. Victor's slept with other people his own age before, and none of them were anywhere near so observant, so quietly sure of themselves. Victor's always preferred the company of adults on the whole, anyway – they say more nice things about him and give him more of their time, and Victor likes the way they treat him as something special without any jealousy. And other teenagers just can't stack up to Yakov's considerable experience.

It's not like he's missing out on that much. Yakov's no stodgy old man, and sometimes he has ideas, suggestions, and they tend to work out well. He's good about asking before he tries them, too. Another advantage over other teenagers. Some of them are nice, and some shy, and then there are the ones who think they can come in his hair when he's blowing them, or that he'll enjoy their ridiculous attempts at dirty talk.

It might be nice if Yakov would lighten up a bit more sometimes. But at least Victor feels appreciated.

When Yakov goes for the drawstring of his sweats, Victor can hardly kick them and his underwear off fast enough. There's a long moment, after, where Yakov just _looks_ at him, and so Victor poses. He parts his legs like an invitation, stretches his arms above his head. He feels a little ridiculous, half-dressed as he is, but he always enjoys this part. The way that something in Yakov's eyes shifts as he sees Victor offering himself up, the way that his breath speeds up, though it never gets out of control.

He follows the suggestion of Victor's spread legs and slides himself between them. The next kiss is soft and lingering; the one after it is not, and Victor moans into it as Yakov finally puts a hand on his hard dick. This is what he's been waiting so long for. Yakov's grip is tight and perfect, and he strokes Victor slowly despite the way he keeps trying to roll his hips up into the touch.

And it's good, it is – it's more than that, with all their skin pressed together now, and for a few moments Victor is content with Yakov's hand and the warm body above him. He can feel Yakov against his thigh now, too. Victor wonders if he was touching himself during his shower, thinking about this, what he planned to do, and the thought makes his cheeks burn harder. Makes him scrabble at Yakov's back with one hand, though he's been scolded enough to try and not dig his nails in too much. A hand is suddenly not enough. He wants more, more touch, more contact, he wants―

"I want you inside me," he pleads. "Yakov," he means to add, but it comes out in a groan as the grip around him tightens.

Another kiss, this time to his cheek, as Yakov mutters an agreement.

Yakov leans up for a moment, then shifts back down, lower. There's soft little kisses on his inner thigh, which puts a kind of good squeeze around Victor's heart, they're so tender, and then two slick fingers press inside him.

When he's feeling more patient, Victor can enjoy those fingers, because they might not be elegant like his own are, but Yakov sure knows what he's doing with them. A couple of weeks ago, Yakov made him come with just fingers inside him and then afterward fucked him so slowly and gently that Victor almost fell asleep in the middle, drowsy from the orgasm and the heat and the lazy rhythm.

But he's not patient at all today. He's waited too long, and his body is still relaxed from sleep. He takes Yakov's wrist and pulls his hand away after a moment. Yakov, thankfully, seems to be on the same page, as he wipes his fingers off on the covers and helps Victor half prop himself up against the headboard.

Victor grabs Yakov's shoulders and parts his legs wider and then, yes, finally, Yakov starts to push into him. He tips his head back and closes his eyes at the sensation of it. Having Yakov inside of him always makes him feel so full up, even like Yakov is taking possession of him. When he's slid himself all the way in, Victor forces his eyes back open, because Yakov likes to pause and look at him and it's natural to look back. Smile. Not the same smile he gave for the press, earlier, or the other medalists.

"Does it feel alright?" Yakov asks. His voice has gone gentler than usual.

"Good," Victor says. He has to bite his lip on a gasp as he shifts his weight slightly so he can move his legs. " _Really_ good."

Some days, he likes to show off his flexibility. Knees pulled all the way up to his shoulders tends to be the most fun one, although they've tried a few other positions that take advantage of all those years of ballet. But tonight, Victor just wraps his legs around Yakov's waist and lets his eyes fall closed again when he starts to move.

The pace he sets is a bit slow. Now that he has what he wanted, though, Victor finds he doesn't mind. He lets Yakov rock into him and lets his body rock back against him, and just tries to keep quiet. Yakov's better at it than he is, almost silent, though his breath is hot and not so calm against Victor's cheek and neck.

It's not long before Victor's starting to lose his ability to really think, which is always a good sign. He bites his lip to keep the noises in before he forgets, and worms a hand between them to touch himself. It's hard to remember to move his hand when Yakov is still moving in him, though, and he can't really concentrate. There's just too much heat building in him; each thrust from Yakov sends more pleasure spiking in his stomach.

And then one of Yakov's hands moves, first to touch his cheek, his eyelashes, and then to wrap his fingers over Victor's down on his cock. That firmly grinds all of Victor's thought processes to a halt. He doesn't need them, anyway, not with Yakov in him, at the right angle to feel good, not with Yakov guiding both of their hands up and down so Victor doesn't have to remember to.

Another stroke and – oh, he's _almost_ – and a quick kiss, too quick, he wanted to feel Yakov's tongue, too, more, but then Yakov squeezes their hands and, oh. He might be saying something, but Victor doesn't hear it because that's when he comes, everything gone blank and out of focus.

The next thing he knows, he's being kissed again. It's a long moment before he remembers to react, and Yakov is already pulling away. He eases Victor up with him, one arm along his spine while the other holds his waist for leverage.

Victor settles into Yakov's lap. His limbs feel so loose. He leaves his legs wrapped around Yakov's hips and sets his arms sort of on Yakov's shoulders, almost dripping down his back with lassitude. When he lets his head droop down, he puts his mouth on Yakov's shoulder because it's there. It tastes clean, like water, and smells like generic hotel soap.

There's something that feels kind of intimate about this, the way he's gently draped around Yakov while Yakov continues to move in and out of him at a steady pace. It's different from when Yakov fucks him on his desk, or the times Victor drops into his lap with the hope of some kisses and maybe a hand down each other's pants. It's comfortable.

He moves his lips up Yakov's shoulder and up his neck, winces a little when Yakov pushes into him too hard. But it's not that bad, just a few seconds of _too much_ , and Yakov whispers his name when Victor kisses his jaw. It's always nice to hear Yakov say it like that, not shouting at him or saying _come on, Vitya_ , impatient because Victor is lingering too long over good-byes to Makkachin or pretty cakes in a store window that he can't eat. So Victor attempts to get him to say it again, lips gentle on his skin, trying not to breathe too hard as he finishes getting his breath back.

It works, sort of. He gets one repetition murmured in his ear, and then on the next one, Yakov only gets as far as _Vi_ , before the grip on his waist tightens. Yakov's hips lose their steadiness; Victor tucks his head back down and finds the energy to slide a hand up to the back of Yakov's head to hold it as he comes. He can feel Yakov tensing up, before it all goes out of him almost at once.

They sit there for a while afterward. Victor's arms slide down until he's hugging Yakov around his chest and starts to drift off. That is, until Yakov finally pulls the jacket off of him, and he has to sit back to allow him to remove his shirt, too. It seems like a good cue to clamber off of him and stretch his legs out before flopping down to the bed.

He can feel Yakov looking at him again. So he gives an exaggerated, full-body stretch – that does feel good, little pains he's gained today aside – and sighs happily as he relaxes back into the blanket.

"Up," Yakov says, though it lacks the hardness his orders usually have. Victor whines at having to get up, but he does so long enough for Yakov to peel the covers back.

Sometimes Yakov insists that he return to his own room. Sometimes Victor goes there of his own volition. But tonight, Yakov doesn't protest when Victor slides in beside him and tucks himself into his side. It's nice and warm and cozy under here together, especially when Yakov turns over and puts an arm around him.

Yakov doesn't tend to talk much, after. No fun gossip about other skaters, but at least that means no prattling on about things Victor doesn't care about until he's ready to leave, either. And it's late enough that he doesn't need to slip off to take care of something (often something Victor's helped interrupt, dinner or emails or the news), so Victor doesn't have to wait for him to come back to bed while he―

Oh, maybe – maybe, earlier, Yakov just wanted to get some things out of the way so they could just lie like this together. No panicked emails from back home sitting on his mind, or whatever boring stuff it is that he has to deal with. Maybe not, but the thought makes Victor press a smile to Yakov's skin.

"What?" Yakov grumbles. Victor doesn't answer, just pushes up a little for a kiss instead.

"Can we do it again in the morning?"

"You have to skate in the gala tomorrow."

"Yeah, so?"

"Insatiable," he mutters. "I don't know how you expect an old man like me to keep up."

"You keep up _fine_." Victor snuggles into him again. He's already looking forward to getting to wake up like this, to sleepy morning kisses. Maybe sleeping morning sex if he can be persuasive enough. Ooh, there's a thought. "You don't have to wait for me to wake up first, if you want." He can't help but laugh at the way Yakov sighs. He wonders if that means _no_ , but he couldn't pass up the idea of waking to his cock in Yakov's mouth, or Yakov nudging his thighs apart for another round.

He kind of wants to go again already. But it's been a long day for him, and there's another one coming tomorrow, so he lets it go this time and lets himself fall fast asleep against Yakov's chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](https://yurionicekink.dreamwidth.org/881.html?thread=346481#cmt346481) because I was in the mood for writing some shameless smut.


End file.
